


where the fields are painted gold

by freidynne



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: CPR, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, M/M, Near Death, Parallels, or the underworld version of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 17:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freidynne/pseuds/freidynne
Summary: Thanatos catches Patroclus just as he was about to give Zagreus a kiss.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 125





	where the fields are painted gold

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Paper Kites’ Bloom.
> 
> Written out of shameless self-indulgence. 😅 Thanks to miko for beta reading!

The stranger is on the verge of dying.

His near-death is unlike the vivid images from Patroclus’ past, wherein proud warriors storm the battlefield with all their might, only to have their guts skewered mere seconds too soon. It is unlike his memories of the shores of Troy, wherein the loudest of the Achaeans become even louder when the smallest of their afflictions are treated with care.

Instead, the stranger spends the remainder of his dying breaths in silence, as if afraid to inconvenience anyone any further. His breathing patterns have become slow and irregular, yet the grip around his spear remains firm and steady. Just moments before, he had offhandedly mentioned that he was on his last chance; if he lost more blood he would be sent right back to where he started.

Patroclus cradles the prince on his lap and considers the options. For one, he could simply watch as the last of Zagreus’ life drains out of him. Or, he could be practical and spare a few moments to dispose of the supplies by his side.

Well. No one else will use these items anyway.

“I need you to cooperate with me, stranger,” Patroclus finally says as he hauls Zagreus’ body to a more comfortable position. Carefully, he raises a tiny ceramic cup filled with Styx water to the prince’s lips, tipping its rim at just the right angle to administer the cure.

Zagreus’ mouth remains shut.

Patroclus sighs as the precious drink dribbles down the stranger’s chin and onto his torn clothes. As Patroclus wipes the trickle with his thumb, a new idea occurs. He studies his patient’s pale skin, his labored breaths. The situation calls for a different course of action.

Patroclus clears his throat. “This is merely a medical necessity, stranger. Think nothing of it.”

A moment passes before Zagreus hums in response. He’s conscious, at least. That is a good sign.

Without further preamble, Patroclus drinks some of the water, then deliberately pulls Zagreus closer. His fingers ghost over the prince’s lips, pale and chapped because of blood loss.

He smells of rust and sweat and ashes.

Patroclus frowns and leans even closer, brushing Zagreus’ hair away from his face. The prince’s mouth parts slightly in silent plea.

Their lips touch.

Patroclus methodically lets the healing kiss of Styx flow from his mouth into the stranger’s own, all the while making sure that not one drop goes to waste. It is a lie to say that Patroclus has not wondered how kissing the stranger would feel like. He just did not expect it to happen under this particular circumstance.

When they are finished, he pulls back and waits.

Nothing happens.

Silence passes between them. Zagreus does not stir.

Worried lines form between Patroclus’ brows. Why isn’t anything happening?

Frustration surges through him. Patroclus grabs the cup and empties its contents, intent to will the stranger back to good health. He forgoes gentleness this time, and proceeds to repeat the process as quickly as possible.

Just as he is about to press his mouth on the stranger once again, a bell tolls.

A flash of light illuminates the whole field. His heart sinks.

Thanatos.

If Death Incarnate is here then, saving the stranger may be too late.

“What is this?” the god asks as soon as his eyes fall on the scene before him, surprise etched on his face. His voice is softer than expected, but the intensity of his stare tells Patroclus that he is not one for jest and conversation. Good.

Patroclus swallows the water in haste so he can speak, but keeps Zagreus cradled in his arms. He considers if he should explain why he looks like he’s stealing a kiss from the prince.

“Have you come to collect him?” he asks instead.

“I— no. I’m here to aid him,” Thanatos says, matter-of-fact. His lips curl in displeasure. “Who…? What did you do to him?”

Patroclus wills himself to not roll his eyes at the accusation. “I did not do anything to him. I was enjoying my solitude when he ambled into this chamber and disturbed my peace.”

The god surveys him in silence, golden eyes narrowing in suspicion. Patroclus becomes acutely aware of the stranger’s warm breath against his neck. He watches as Death’s gaze falls on the empty cup in his hand.

“Is that—?”

“Styx water, yes.” At the god’s grim expression, he adds, “The stranger told me it’s quite the commodity around here.”

A flicker of understanding flashes on Thanatos’ face. “I suppose he needs all the help he can get to escape.”

There’s a bitter edge in Death Incarnate’s voice, but it is not Patroclus’ habit to pry. Instead, he gestures to the deity in his arms. “You said you’re here to aid him. Now is as good a time as any.”

The god blinks, surprised at the suggestion.

“I can only prolong his life, not replenish the ones he has lost,” he says after a while.

“Very well. If you’re not going to help, please leave us be.” Patroclus waves a hand in dismissal and turns his attention back to Zagreus, who is still struggling to breathe. They’ve wasted too much time. He takes another cup from his stock and prepares to drink again, hopeful that the additional dose will work this time.

His lips are mere inches away from Zagreus when Thanatos grabs his wrist. “What are you doing?”

Patroclus wrests his arm away, too impatient to even be shocked at the coldness of Death’s skin. He did not even notice the god moving towards him. “I am trying to save his life.”

“With a kiss?”

If they were not in a life or death situation, Patroclus might have found the incredulity in the god’s voice amusing. Alas. “It is called the ‘Kiss of Styx,’ is it not?”

“This is not a game, shade,” Thanatos warns, gripping his scythe in annoyance. “Why don’t you just make him drink the water himself?”

Patroclus does not prevent the exasperated roll of his eyes this time. Drawing patience from his past experiences with the divine, he explains, “I won't be doing this if that had worked, would I?”

“I suppose not,” the god concedes, finally.

“Would you rather he passes now?” Patroclus prods. It is a valid option.

“I’d rather he stays home,” Thanatos replies. His hand leaves the scythe to move towards Zagreus’ face, gently wiping soot off the prince’s left cheek. “But it is not my choice to make.”

Something in Patroclus’ chest constricts, but he immediately pushes the memories away before he gets distracted.

They both wait a moment more.

Thanatos’ attention is still on Zagreus when he speaks. “Let me do it, then.”

“Very well,” Patroclus agrees, too tired to argue any further. He offers the small cup of water to the god, careful to not spill its contents. The last thing they want is another failed attempt. When Thanatos does nothing but stare at the drink and the stranger, Patroclus asks, “You do know what you’re supposed to do, right?”

Death blushes. “O-of course. I was just wondering if it is alright to kiss him like this.”

“It’s not really a kiss,” Patroclus says, lips quirking in amusement despite the situation. “You’re just going to use your mouth to revive him. Just... make sure he drinks all of it.”

“Of course,” Thanatos repeats, more to himself than to the shade before him. His fingers comb through the prince’s hair. In a surprisingly tender tone, he whispers, “Zag? I’m sorry for not arriving sooner but I’ll help you now, alright? Stay with me, alright?”

Maybe the wistful reflection of Lethe’s waters are playing tricks on him, but Patroclus swears he sees the stranger’s eyes flutter beneath his eyelids in response.

Patroclus adjusts the god in his arms to allow the other god better access.

Thanatos takes the cue and extends his own arm under the prince’s back, whilst using his free hand to throw the Styx water into his mouth. As if struck by the urgency of his task, the god wastes no time and presses his lips against the stranger’s own. He then slides his thumb over Zagreus’ chin, ensuring that the latter drinks the cure to the last drop. The position is awkward but it will do.

The irony of the situation is not lost on Patroclus: Death Incarnate himself — on his knees, scythe discarded and forgotten — delivering a kiss to restore life. It’s quite silly, is it not? This god is supposed to lead departed souls into the underworld, not save someone from the brink of death, even if that someone is the Prince of the Dead.

He watches as Thanatos administers the cure, and just like that, Patroclus’ thoughts wander to memories unbidden, just as it is wont to do at any given moment of his existence in the afterlife.

This time, he allows his mind to take him to another moment, to another field — gold instead of green, to another pair of boys who clung to each other as fiercely as they could.

He remembers how he kissed someone just as tenderly, just as desperately. He remembers how he loved someone just as unconditionally. The memories make his heart twist in sorrow and soar in joy. He holds onto it selfishly, like a hungry child holds onto his last piece of bread.

Thanatos parts from the stranger, and Patroclus is transported back to the present. He notes the worried crease between Death Incarnate’s brows, the strained clench of his fists.

“Was I too late?”

Patroclus relinquishes his hold on Zagreus so that the god of death can take the prince into his arms. Thanatos cradles Zagreus instinctively, the look of concern on his face prompting Patroclus to avert his gaze.

“Give it a moment,” he says, shifting his attention on a tiny dewdrop caught on a blade of grass at his feet.

Silence stretches between them but eventually, Zagreus groans and stirs awake, the water of Styx replenishing his lost lives. Thanatos attends to him in an instant, conjuring a centaur heart to boost the prince's vitality for the rest of his journey.

“Than?” Zagreus croaks.

“Zag.”

The prince grins at Death Incarnate in wonder. Then, as if realizing the implications of the situation, he sits up and looks Thanatos in the eyes. “Than. I—”

“You’re alive,” Thanatos says in relief, cutting whatever apology the prince was about to give. “You had me worried.”

“Heh. You know I’m used to it by now.” Zagreus shrugs in an attempt to lighten the mood.

It does not work on Thanatos.

“Just because you’re used to it doesn’t make your suffering any more bearable for us to watch.”

“I…”

“It’s not your time,” Thanatos continues. “Not if I can help it.”

“I’m sorry, Than,” Zagreus says quietly. “I’ll be more careful next time. I promise.”

Thanatos considers the prince for a while, as if to verify the authenticity of his words. He smirks. “You should. How can you beat my death count if you’re dead?”

Zagreus’ face lights up at the challenge. At the accepted apology. “Ha! Come with me to the next chamber and we’ll find out.”

The other god collects his scythe and picks himself up from the ground. “Not now, Zag. I’ve already spent too much time here.”

“I’m sorry,” Zagreus says again, also rising to his feet, a pout on his lips.

“It was my choice to make,” Thanatos says in reassurance.

The prince smiles. “And I’m grateful you made it.”

For a moment, the two gods bask in each other’s presence, soaking in the gravity of each other’s words. Then Zagreus takes in their surroundings, sees the empty cups and the spilled Styx water on the ground. He turns to Patroclus.

“Sir, I’m sorry for taking so much of your time. You didn’t have to waste it on me, but you did. Thank you,” he says in all sincerity, “for not trying to slay me and for saving my life.”

Patroclus twiddles a needle of grass between his fingers. In all honesty, he had hoped the two would forget his part in all this and just leave him be.

Well.

“The trouble is unwelcome, stranger. But it’s good to see you back on your feet,” he says, accepting the gratitude with reluctance. “Besides, it’s no good to leave you helpless on the ground for who knows how long, not when you can quickly pass through.”

“Of course. I want to thank you, nonetheless. Both of you,” Zagreus insists, used to Patroclus’ chides by now. Shaking the kinks out of his neck, the prince regards the entrance to the next chamber, determination etched on his face. “I’ll be going now.”

“Go on, then.”

“See you at home.”

Goodbyes bidden, Zagreus sprints towards his destination, both health and chances restored. He gives a dramatic salute before disappearing into the distance, flame-licked feet setting the terrain on fire as he goes. The gate has long slammed shut when Thanatos speaks again.

“You have my thanks too,” the god says, hovering off the ground and fixing the grip around his weapon for his departure.

Now that there is no imminent danger, Patroclus becomes quite unsure how to proceed with the conversation. In the end, he settles for earnestness. “You did well, all things considered.”

Thanatos smiles at the praise. “I had to. For him.”

Patroclus inclines his head in agreement, knowing all too well what the god means. With one last nod of acknowledgment, Thanatos vanishes, leaving blinding light and bell tolls in his wake.

The silence that follows is familiar. Welcome. Patroclus settles back to his usual corner, rearranges the empty cups and the untouched strips of jerky. Thinks. Waits. The river ripples serenely behind him. The upturned spear at his side remains securely pierced to the ground.

In solitude, his thoughts so often drift to _him_ , and their separation, and their fate.

Sometimes he clings to anger, oftentimes he falls into despair. He thinks back to the encounter with the stranger and the god of death, the peculiarity of it all. He muses on their resolve and their relief. They are also slaves to their circumstance, yet they continue to fight against it.

Just as he and his Achilles once did.

Patroclus squeezes his eyes shut and remembers: golden fields, star-filled skies, the simple joy of loving each other. He holds on to each memory. Hopes. Waits. Their time together may have come to pass, but each moment remains vivid in his mind. In the past, they had each other. For now, these memories are enough.


End file.
